


Fear Tactics

by blueberry01120



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha Bucky Barnes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Omega Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Ravishment, Russian Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, Steve is insane
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25812877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueberry01120/pseuds/blueberry01120
Summary: Steve's got a new mysterious, ridiculously gorgeous alpha neighbor across the hall that he'll be damned if he doesn't make the acquaintance of.That neighbor's not interested in making Steve's acquaintance.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 14
Kudos: 124





	1. The Warning

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah, purge, blah blah, another WNIP that I'm putting out into the world because hoarding is bad, mmkay.

Steve considers himself a pretty blessed guy. Life's been sweet to him, sweeter than he deserves at times. That tall glass of holy fuck hauling grocery bags into the apartment cross his that's been empty the past few months far as Steve as known, that's gotta qualify.

Musician guy and his girl that lived there before, sure, they were nice. Made sure to pull in Steve's packages after he did theirs. But neither one of them had lips like that, on top of not being definitely off-limits. At least for Steve. He didn't know about them -- it's the 21st century. They were artists after all. Most people seem surprised when Steve tells them he's one not just 'cause he irons his jeans with the crease down the middle like Ma taught him. Hey, no judgment from Steve, but he's never been a big Unicorn type. Chin Dimple cross the hall doesn't seem like one either.

Definitely not much of an artist. Total disregard for colors outside of the primaries in his wardrobe would convince you otherwise, but Steve's probably the only one using paints that uses a ballcap under 40. Probably construction. Those shoulders, yeah, they could lug support beams ‘round no problem. Would explain why despite him definitely having lived there for at least a month why Steve only sees him by chance of coming in for lunch to pick up some canvas. Sure has got the demeanor for it. Tall -- like everybody isn't to Steve. Listen, he knows what an average height chin looks like versus one that ain't. The guy's tall, wide-shouldered, could clear a way through a crowd no problem, hell, could do that with the look on his face. Glowering. That's the type of word they use for what those Broadway lips and eyes are doing.

Steve brings his chin up when they pass. No response. Even if Steve wasn't a ways below his eye-line, something tells him it'd be the same. Something might by that proper ten knuckle hit to the gut the subsequent breath in is. A bit of adrenaline, a lot of adrenaline, slathered in, you know, that feeling right before it all goes sideways and upways and Steve's feeling like he's gonna die if he doesn't get off.

Guy has to be alpha. Cherry on top for all the unlucky girls and boys that crossed paths with him before Steve and had their hearts used for fire fuel. Sure, they curse his name and call him all sorts of red-colored things, but Steve bets if you ask 'em if they regret meeting him, won’t be a yes from a single one of them. Kinda like Tony.

Except Steve can’t say he gets Tony as more than somebody you go to for an inverted spin on things and a laugh. Dimple’s all James Dean. Blue jeans and that kind of rebellious intensity that makes teens runaway from the safety of their homes to screw around in the back of cars. They’re a ways out from their teens, but Steve half-expects a chunk of the time the apartment across the hall’s empty is spent terrorizing commitments on accident.

He must have a hell of a lot of good stories to tell. And nobody to tell them to.

Yeah, yeah, Steve’s friends say the concept of community is dead, and your neighbor’s just the person that lives next door to you, but Steve doesn’t buy it.

When he gets fliers for a gallery opening, he saves one to slide under the door across the hall. He doesn’t show up but not saying a lot when guy barely shows up to the apartment in the first place. For when he does, hey, if he’s got free time, Steve slides choices under his door.

The night Steve gets home to the side of him at the mailboxes, it’s like seeing a shooting star from the city.

Guy doesn’t take one look at Steve before he’s headed for the stairs.

“Hey.”

That stops him.

“We haven’t officially met,” Steve tells him, going around to be in front of him, make eye contact, “but I live across from you.” He holds out his hand. “Steve.”

The guy has one free hand without an intention of shaking his.

“Sorry for the extra trash. Figure it’s better to have more choices, and if I’ve got anything to say, some of these shows have been pretty damned good.”

Not much of a talker is he.

“If you ever need anything, I’m just across the hall—”

“Do us both a favor. Leave me alone,” he’s slowly saying right through the space in his lips, and next thing, Steve’s having to look up to see him already starting up the stairs. Not a bad angle of him. Is there one?

So, he’s a bit of an asshole. Steve can do asshole.

#

Steve stops at the farmer’s market with Pepper, and it’s not much to grab a few extra apples, oranges, fruits that nobody, no matter how broody they are, can turn down. He leaves the bag of them — reusable. One of the ones they give out at the museum — on his favorite neighbor’s doorknob. After a day, somewhere in between Steve’s roundtrip to work and back, bag ends up on his doorknob. Fruit didn’t do the job. Alright. How about a few peppers, tomatoes, an onion? Come on. Can’t go wrong with an onion. That’s a basic staple in any kitchen worth a damn.

But then again, Square Jaw’s probably getting fed out of somebody else’s kitchen. Someone that could be right there beside him on the steamy ad above Times Square pretending to sling some cologne when they know damned sure no one’s noticed the cologne in the corner. Probably nothing like Steve. The vulnerable-looking “twink” thing — not Steve’s favorite word, being compared to the worst food known to man on top of all the other mess that comes along with it — but Steve’s look takes him pretty far in a lot of places, even with some women. The neighbor, Steve’s just being realistic here in saying chances of him looking once at Steve that way, they’re slim — because being omega isn’t a foot in the door. It’s another step after you’ve already got through it.

Nobody that’d be interested in Steve would return his veggies. Even Tony way back when before Pepper would’ve had someone make something outta them and brought the end product, something fancy, French, to Steve to show off.

Steve saves his fruits and vegetables. The extra slice of cake shoved at him after a showing though, why not? He leaves it on his neighbor’s door along with a note on the back of the night’s program — almond chocolate in case he’s got any allergies but gluten free.

And would you look at that? No cake on either of their doorknobs the next day.

Yet they say persistence doesn’t pay off.

He has nothing to hang on his neighbor’s knob when he comes in for the evening. Believe it or not, Steve knows the line between persistent and annoying. Thank you, Tony. He accepted one of Steve’s offerings. That opens up a whole wealth of possibilities. Food from Steve’s kitchen. His chocolate chip cookie recipe ruins Betty Crocker box-made stuff forever. The guy won’t want Steve to leave him alone again.

Cookies, that’s a great idea. It’s an idea that gets Steve up from his drafting table, the only light in his apartment this late, but he doesn’t need any to get himself to the kitchen to check he’s got all of the ingredients on hand.

Turns out that confectionery sugar he lent to Sam wasn’t his last bag after all.

Hold on a second.

Steve’s got company behind him.

He sees the hand coming on the mouth because that's how it always goes in these situations. His elbow back gets laughed at by the solid wall of flesh behind him. Hand at his mouth smothers him hard, butts the back of his head back against muscle, pure muscle.

He finds some space to breathe in.

That breath in, that's all _him_.

"I told you to leave me alone." A whisper's like a scream straight into the ear. “For your own good.”

His jeans don't go down nicely, but they go easily. His boxers follow them down a bit after the fact, but if there's anybody they're glad to drop for, it's that pout in his hair.

He hasn't been there this quick since, what, the hall out there that day?

He's not alone. Fuck, that thing shakes hands. Right now, it's burning an impression of itself into Steve's backside. If that's meant to scare Steve, it's doing a hell of a bad job. The guy thinks Steve's some pathetic little thing for him to beat down, but he's got Steve read all wrong. Steve's not the hold down and screw into submission type.

Steve pushes right around those fingers that slip their way in. No doubt Steve can keep up feeling how easy they go in.

Dimple sure as hell doesn't think. He yanks out to go angle himself.

From nothing to the fullest he's been his whole life. Bet his mouth's gonna make it known.

He's got no ground under his feet, relying on the hip bones lifting up his thighs for stability. The arm trying to keep him in place, he's got better plans for it. Leverage for the bit of growing pain — and the best kind of pain, that kind of pain that’s gonna stick around for days, round out the memory of him and how good he’s gonna give it to Steve — and Steve meeting him halfway 'cause he sure ain't doing it hovering off the ground. Guy's holding him tighter though. Being full's great and all, but doing something with all of that is better, and hard to do when all he can do is grind holding Steve this tight, secure — and the grinding, it's got his organs feeling all funny like hitting the deep end, but it's not gonna get Steve there. Steve squeezes onto the arm his hardest.

He gets his mouth back. "Loosen your arm. It'll be easier —"

Kitchen counter holds him by the stomach. Hands have him in a death grip by the hips, but Steve can work with it, get up on his own hands and elbows and screw himself back on that big cock.

It's coring him. Holy hell.

One deep stroke is sending him over, spilling him out, and it's relentless, the filling. When he's come back to all five senses, he's getting stuffed.

He loses all feeling in his hips from the hands squeezing tight. The cock twitching in him — first time getting it raw, having cum inside of him. Every throbbing squirt of it comes through the knot trying to scare him.

He takes a moment to catch his breath.

"You... liked that."

Now, he gets Tony's Captain Obvious thing. "Guess you can say that. Could've asked first but." For him, feeling what he feels, knowing that it must’ve dragged the guy across the hall here, Steve'll make an exception.

Though getting put on the kitchen ground no matter how clean Steve keeps it is pushing it.

"You never told me your name."

"I don't need your pity." Pity? Does he know what that word means? "I'm not someone that someone like you knows."

Don't need to tell Steve that.

"Then, teach me about you."

He makes a nose noise like Steve's fresh out of the womb. He's not gentle about pulling out the second his knot let's him. He grips the back of Steve's neck. "Stay away from me."

Dimple leaves.

There's a wince and unpleasant trickle when Steve gets up.

Cookies it is then.


	2. Ignored

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve continues to Steve, and James Jameses. If they were flavors of maniac, they'd be french vanilla and moose tracks, the madlads.

Steve’s cookies, hard as it is to believe, go ignored. Yep. Left there, deliciousness passing ‘em by, hanging on Dimples’ doorknob. After five days, Steve tosses ‘em to the pigeons on his way in. At least someone gets to enjoy them.

A guy that does unorthodox entries to your apartment probably is not the type to do the lunches and walks through the park, especially not when they got a jumped start on internal renovations. Not that Steve’s complaining. There are such a thing as good aches, and it’s a hell of an ache. Too bad his goes away around the time the cookies’ll start to turn. But hey, Steve didn’t see it coming the first time. Given Dimple’s track record, no reason to think the second will be any different.

Which Steve’s pretty confident is waiting for him some late-night after the door across the hall has gotten some action, displacing the little bit of scotch tape Steve put between the jamb and door.

“So,” says Nat, “who’s the lucky contestant that’s got you daydreaming? Still this mysterious neighbor of yours?” She’s holding up mail that can’t be Steve’s.

Steve doesn’t live in the apartment across his. “James Barnes” does.

“Nat. This is a federal crime.”

“You said you were worried. You’re the kind neighbor. Kind neighbors pick up one another’s mail.”

“When it’s not locked in a mailbox!”

“A lot of mail. Sure he’s not a transient and moved onto the next city?”

“I’m not. But there’s no proof he is either.”

Why go through all the work of trying to scare Steve off if he was skipping town to Cleveland the day after?

With Nat’s history with James’ mail, Steve keeps it and gumbands it. Junk, ads, special offers for “James B. Barnes.” A tough looking envelope says nothing but his name and the printed off stamp on it. Steve doesn’t open it. Nah. No need for that. Google can take in “James B. Barnes” and spit out squat else but some stories about some other James, other Barneses and keep Steve’s conscience clean.

For when he comes back from his trip to maybe family or for work, Steve gives Barnes a nonperishable this time, a note that someone broke into Barnes’ mailbox and Steve had some mail. Technically the truth.

Steve’s tape is in place when he leaves in the morning, but when he gets back around five, early, no tape in sight.

Cookies’ll have their time again.

He’s got his shoes and coat off when something sticks out the corner of his eye.

Barnes is over by Steve’s fireplace staring Steve down. Light’s not a weakness of that smolder. 

“See you got your mail.”

“You know who broke into my mailbox.”

“…‘Know’ is a generous word to use there,” he tells him, making his way to the kitchen. “I don’t think anyone can know her. Kind of like quantum physics or something. Bet you two’d have a lot in common.”

“Natasha Romanoff.”

Baking soda in hand, Steve turns toward the new door his kitchen’s never had. “Natalie Rushman as her parents, two of the nicest people around, renamed her and she goes by.” Which Steve only learned after 8 years of their 10 friendship. “Been looking me up?”

“You’re naive and vulnerable. It is a matter of time before you get yourself killed.”

“Hey, before you, a grand total of nobody broke into my apartment and caught the drop on me. Well, one time I had to climb up the fire escape when Tony took all the keys at the table in a rush. But I’d left a window open. And it’s my apartment. ‘Get myself killed.’ Pal, I’ve made it 32-odd years. I don’t need any help staying alive.” The balls on this guy. Good-looking but too big for their own good. “And I ain’t either of those things, thank you very much.”

The flour’s about to get itself into Steve’s hand, but the kitchen’s turning itself around him and facing him forward into Mr. James Barnes’ rack. All thanks to the hand James’ got from shoulder to collar bone. Nothing to stop Steve from pushing himself up off his heels toward those damned lips. Like hell if he’d make it if James weren’t on-board — skipping town, Steve’s ass. He saves their necks the trouble by putting arms around James’ and getting himself a seat on that lap.

He takes a split-second break to say, “Couch.” One, saves him from a permanent stiffy when he does anything in the kitchen. Two, Steve’s bones don’t have to suffer on something soft. That spill onto his back would be hell on the ground, take away from all the good hurt.

All the waiting he’s done, yeah, he wants to see the man proper naked.

“No,” James is saying, Steve’s arms caught up at the bottom of his shirt in those unbreakable hands of his. “Scars.”

“I like scars. Adds character.”

“No.”

“No? Listen, I respect your decision, but if it’s because you think —”

Steve’s got a flesh and bone handcuff around the wrists above his head.

Other hand of James’ reaches back and you can’t tell Steve there’s no damned God when the guy has a body out of the Greek section of the museum. Abs and laterals and pectorals sympathy flexing for the arm doing all the work, one hell of an arm, and the only arm James is gonna show off ‘cause his shirt’s journey ends there on the shoulder of his left. 

“Happy now?”

“That’s a word for it.”

James ain’t too shy from the Adonis belt down. Shy sure don’t apply in the realm of that cock, staring Steve down just as hard as James is doing up above.

When Steve sees the window to sit himself up and get a closer look, he goes for it. While he’s at it, only makes sense to kill two birds with one stone and have a taste. James tastes like he smells, like Steve’s got that eight inches plus of usable mouth and throat for a reason and this is it.

Count the noise that scrapes on James’ teeth too.

Through the bit of tears, nothing really, James’s all furrowed brow and wide-open pout.

The yank that takes Steve to the tip goes with a teeth flash. He keeps that grip in Steve’s hair, not painful like he’s had practice with it, probably has.

Spit’s cooling off on Steve’s chin. “Guess you’re not interested in fucking my mouth then?”

“I want your cunt.” Damned vulgar. Just what you expect from him.

Steve tries to offer up help getting off his clothes, but James’s not interested in splitting duties. Okay, he can steal off Steve’s briefs like they’ve done something to him. But only because guy clearly gets off on it and yeah, Steve’s for James getting turned on by him. Putting it lightly. He gives an involuntary clench when James takes a look at him down there like it’s got him on the brink of ecstasy by sight alone.

James shows himself in slower this time. Turns out to be the only slow thing he’s got in mind.

Steve reaches down, but James beats him to the punch, takes his cock in hand, and that brutal pace he’s got Steve’s heart jostling around his ribcage with, he unleashes that onto Steve’s cock. That, the cramming happening inside of him, Steve doesn’t stand a goddamned chance.

“Fucking — fuck.” Real eloquent, Rogers.

Hey, James doesn’t even get words out when he follows Steve down. It’s, of course, by a damned good margin the hottest noise Steve’s heard.

The solid up against Steve’s throat when James puts his face there, that’s teeth. They don’t do much else though.

“That was intense.”

James stays quiet.

“So, that B, what’s that stand for? Benjamin? Bradley? I’m not even gonna say Bill. Wouldn’t fit you. Brandon —?”

“You ask too many questions.”

“You don’t ask enough. I guess why do that when you can go find the answers yourself.”

“You don’t need to know the answers.”

“The position we’re in would beg to differ.”

Talk about two guns to the head, those eyes.

“Come on. You rejected my cookies. A middle name seems like a small price to pay for my labor.”

“You’re a fool.” James really can’t find it in him to give a compliment, huh? He’s aloof. Steve gets it. It’s his act. Fine. But they sure ain’t going anywhere fast with this whole back and forth where James acts like what Steve needs to know begins and ends at the outside of him. Might’ve been like that with all the other ones that came before Steve but Steve’s not gonna lay underneath the guy while he tells him all the things Steve’s heard too many times and isn’t hearing in the comfort of his own home.

It is his. James welcoming himself in doesn’t change that.

“Listen,” he goes when he’s got his boxers back up and on and won’t make a mess on his floor standing up, “I get you have your opinions about me. Everyone does. Doesn’t make them right. If you get to know me, you’ll see yourself.”

James gets his shirt back on, glower untouched. “You don’t want me to know you.”

“Think that’s my choice to make.”

James’ little noise disagrees.

“I don’t know where you come from, but around here, we like to let people freely associate with who they wanna associate with. Clearly, I’ve already made my decision. And you — you’re here.”

For the few steps it’ll take him from the couch out. Before he goes, James looks him up and down, and he’s gotta admit. He’s impressed. “You have no clue what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“Oh. I think I’ve got a few.”

One of them being that filthy flick of the eyes back at Steve before the door ends the opportunity. Steve’s never been short on inspiration for his art, never struggled to make apple pie out of the apple skins, but God, you can’t tell him that ain’t the fuse of masterpieces.

James forgot his mail.

Eh. He’ll be back to get it.


	3. The Give

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We back. Previously mentioned elsewhere software issues, blah, blah, blah. Here's more of Steve acting a fool for his spooky neighbor.

It’s not that night. Not the night after, or the one after that either. See, James, he travels for work. That much Steve’s sure of. For what? Insurance? Can’t say he wouldn’t make a hell of a claims adjuster. Shoot one look and they’re admitting that flood up in the bathroom wasn’t from a storm but a kid having fun with a faucet. Who knows. James will spit it out sooner or later, have to justify to Steve why is it he’s got no one to welcome him home or surprise him in the kitchen for days at a time.

You know, Steve’s not one to toot his own horn, but come on. After that escapade on the couch, James has gotta be having a tough time out there on the road. Yeah, yeah, a whole street of housewives that could make a desperate man out of anyone have all sorts of hospitality for James’ needs, but there’ll be something missing.

He can’t put it into words. Steve’s trade’s his hands, not his words, but the dopey smile that gets Tony’s eyes rolling gets the point across. “I already get enough side eyes sitting with you. Now, you’re throwing the school boy smile on top of it? You trying to get me arrested, Rogers?”

Between the two of them, if anyone’s getting arrested, it’s Steve for what’s going on up top. Steve doesn’t know the guys birthday, but he knows the right ratio of orange and red to mix to get the deep, off-gray pink around James’ nipples. A special kind of cruelty. Screwing Steve like that and running off to check out leaky roofs.

When Steve gets in, his shower’s running.

The mysterious culprit has the bathroom fogged up and Steve throbbing so bad the half step toward _Max Schmidt in a Single Scull_ on the curtain aches. Just huffing it all in could get him off he bets. Could. Doesn’t mean it should. Steve showered earlier, but you can never be too clean.

Curtains of all types usually don’t peel back on a view of foggy mile-wide shoulders. A V to put the Greeks and the guys at the gyms to shame. He goes in to touch James’ back. 

The only back that gets touched is his by the wall. Backs of his arms are there too, pinned by James’ tradesman hands. Redundant not that Steve’s complaining. But James has a stare like a dirty whisper that takes all of the drive out of your muscles. Across Times Square at rush hour James would have Steve pinned.

That lasts as long as it takes for James’ everlasting pout to start teasing Steve in earnest. Steve’s straining forward for show because James has it all taken care of, getting those lips onto Steve’s. All teeth and tongue, Steve’s got no choice but to respond in kind.

Those goddamned lips keep going, and they go till Steve’s down a hot throat.

After he’s swallowed Steve, he comes back up to stuff him. Never a gentle one with him. Not that Steve’d have it any other way. Or James would, hell, could do it.

Steve’s alright hitching a ride on James’ strong waist and neck out to the bedroom when he’s half-man, half-jelly, liable to brain himself if not for James — who, may Steve mention, has to catch his own bearings before he lets the wall have a rest too. James is all training navigating out through the steam. Steam, the darkness of Steve’s kitchen that one night, nothing fazes him.

Except total nudity. Too bad for him, him and Steve are one in the same for another minute. Which is ample time out where Steve’s visibility isn’t to the tip of his nose for Steve to enjoy how damned perfect James is all over. ‘Cause he is. Guy tried to make a fuss about some scars on that arm doing just fine securing its place in Steve’s Hall of Fame, but yeah, give Steve a break.

Sure. There are scars, deep, silver-pink firework scars that have a kind of story you don’t tend to tell when about half of yourself — by Steve’s rough measure of James’ body to dick ratio — is inside someone else, but they’re scars. They all got ‘em.

Steve’s got his fair share, and you don’t see him scrambling to cover up like he’s not got James leaking hot and thick out of him when they separate. The story behind them can’t be too pretty, but that doesn’t mean James isn’t. No one could’ve been dumb enough to make him think that, right? They’d have to be too dumb to live.

A black shirt has hidden away James from the neck to waist, arm included. They as a society should really reconsider this shirt deal.

Steve goes, “So, enjoy your trip?”

James has an ass that’d earn him an Ancient Greek temple or two. That said, wouldn’t kill him to show some humility and talk to Steve like a person.

“You travel for work, right? What’s it? Insurance? Sales? Something like that?”

“Whichever one answers your question.”

“That’s not how that works, but I think I’ll let you off.”

Toweling his hair, James’ mouth — Steve doesn’t know. If you ask him, that looks real damned close to a smirk. “You’ll let me off?”

“Yeah? My ears are still ringing a little bit from the first orgasm. The second? It’s a start.” Steve throws on some boxers that won’t stain too bad. “So, you eat, or do you just get by on the psychic energy of all the people lusting after you?”

James eats. He eats louder than he talks. Grading him on an average. All that silence throws it off. And whose fault is that?

Steve’s doing all the leg work here. Not everybody’s a talker, definitely not Mr. Motormouth. But you know, there are a whole lotta words besides “yes,” “no,” and Steve’s favorite “hm.” Where’s he from? Hm. Yeah, sounds like a cool place. Where’s that at west of “yes” to how long has he been in New York or northeast of “no” to what’s his preference between hot cocoa, milk chocolate or dark? The thing is James hears him. Steve’s got a gold medal in sussing out if someone’s humoring him to shut him up or not, and James has active listening eyes the whole time Steve’s mouth is going.

James seems to like silently scanning Steve’s face to memory for his trips to check out flooded basements better than conversation. Flattering. Steve won’t deny that. But you can talk and gawk at the same time. Steve would know. He hasn’t stopped imagining how he’ll render that certified pout on James in acrylic, but he asks James looming — guy’s a big time loomer, isn’t he? Not like he can help it. Shoulders like those paired with those eyes and that Old Hollywood chin, no way could he pull off anything else. Still, Steve manages to keep his wits to try to get a chat going with James looming next to him while he does the dishes.

What Steve knows: James ain’t a man of many words.

Not when they’re upright. When they’ve gone down to Steve’s bed, James has a whole lot to say about Steve’s requests. Real audacious, he tells Steve, “I know what to do,” like “You better not stop” isn’t encouragement. The balls on the guy. In all the ways.

Steve knows nothing but so much about James. Probably more than a lot of people. Words ease the getting to know process, but actions are a sure thing. James holding back whatever he’s got to say when he gets off, all titanium on top of Steve, chest like a hot brick wall on Steve’s back, turning whatever it is into a kind of desperate, strangled sound. Him rolling them onto their sides but keeping his arms to himself.

It’s no surprise when he lets the cold into Steve’s bed in his place when Steve drifts off. It’d be good to have him to wake up in the arms of, but come on, who’s Steve kidding?

The nips and kisses at the base of his neck where he can cover ‘em with a collared shirt, that’s the sort of morning after you get with James.

Hey, it’s something. Everything starts from something.

“The hell got into you?” Sam asks when they meet up for lunch. “And please tell me it’s not that asshole that works in the office building across the street Brock.”

“No, it’s not Brock.”

Sam’s nodding, smiling now. “It’s not Brock. Right. Right. The neighbor you’re stalking.”

“I’m not stalking him, Sam.”

“Hm, as the one that knows the law between the two of us, I gotta say, if a case comes across my desk with some stranger leaving fruits and veggies —”

“I’m not a stranger. We’ve talked. I know his name —”

“‘Cause Rushman stole that mail for you.”

“I woulda known his name sooner or later anyway. We’re on speaking terms.”

“‘Speaking.’ Mhm, sure y’all doing a lot of that. You’re glowing over there, Rogers. About to blind the whole street.”

“You’re not wrong. I do most of the talking, but he’s just kind of a quiet guy. Nothing wrong with that.”

“James, huh? I gotta say. Of all the people I expected to stumble into a friends with benefits relationship with a neighbor, you’re about damned near rock bottom. Now, if you said you’d go out on a series of cute picnic and little dates to Coney Island, that’s a different story. And I know y’all ain’t been doing all of that ‘cause Rushman would’ve dropped by my office to try to lure me into one of her betting rings. One of these days, if she gets got for not having a gambling license, don’t say I had shit to do with it.”

“I wouldn’t call it friends with benefits.”

“Because y’all aren’t friends. You’re his annoying neighbor that he decided to pacify with dick.”

“Sam.”

“Calling it like I see it. Come on. If the guy was worth a damn, we’d have already met him ‘cause he’d have shown up all the gallery openings and exhibitions you stuffed up under his door.”

“He’s busy. I told you—”

“He travels for work. Okay. But coming from somebody whose man travels for work a bit, Riley finds the time when he wants to find it.”

“You’re sounding like Stark. When’d you get so cynical?”

Sam doesn’t deny it. He goes, “When you seriously entertained Tony damned Stark for a few seconds.” That’s not fair. Because Tony’s not all bad. He’s a decent guy, has his shortcomings but everybody has ‘em. “And you’re proving my point. You really are some lawyer out there’s fantasy witness. Damn. Give me an art crime case, and I’m calling you as expert witness.”

That’s not a threat Sam’s been making since they met years ago or nothing. Steve wouldn’t mind it. If he can help someone get justice with what he knows, he’d be honored. Yes, he’d make the time for it ‘cause he wants to like Sam was trying to get James doesn’t. 

Steve gets called “kid” at least once a day by people his age or younger, but he has some sense. That sense is telling him that James, he’s the real deal. James could’ve ignored him, tossed the food, the fliers, but what’d he do instead? Doesn’t scream that he’s not interested to Steve.

Instead of going for his door, Steve has a knock on James’.

James could be on the other side of Steve’s, but James’ door’s snatching open, fitting one James next to it.

“Surprised you’re still here.”

Silence. Figures James considers that part of his vocabulary.

“I know a James,” says Steve. “So, it’s kinda confusing to have two of ‘em.”

That other James goes by Rhodes or Rhodey if you’re Stark, but James might not’ve found that out from his background check on Steve’s life. Didn’t. James’ eyes consider rolling but don’t do it, too cool for that.

“Bucky,” James says. “My middle name is Buchanan. My — it’s a nickname from when I was young.”

James Buchanan Barnes. Has quite the name on him too. But Bucky, that’s… that’s funny. Real.

“Bucky. Alright. It feels right.”

Steve’s shirt’s gone tight around him, yanked that way by the hand James — no, Bucky pulls him with. It goes slack when Steve’s caught by a wall, mirror of where his is across the hall.

Bucky’s on his knees before the door’s shut. His brow cranks Steve’s gut tighter, all foreboding and dominating even down there undoing Steve’s pants.

The air is cold, colder with the bit of light some lamp somewhere farther in gives out. James hand under his shirt holding him still burns him good.

Before Bucky gets him in his mouth, Steve asks, “How long are you gonna be gone — when you go?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky surrounds Steve in the hottest wet, and oh, Bucky’ll be back. When he’s gone, he’ll be back ‘cause nobody else out there is crying out this stupidly hard for him when he gets his tonsils past Steve’s helmet. Like Christmas for Bucky’s ego.

Steve’s telling Bucky when he stands up, taking his shirt up too to show off all that chiseling like Steve could forget, “Well, we better make the most of your stay, huh?”

Ask the wall, Bucky’s couch, the damned coffee table, and they’ll confirm that they sure do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, yes, Bucky Barnes, a man that clearly checks for flood damage (outside of assorted underwear, underwear-like implements, and pants). That's so obvious, Steve, and not at all wishful thinking.

**Author's Note:**

> *worrying for Steve's taste intensifies*   
> Like, bro, I don't know about you but someone breaking into my apartment and banging me without any prior discussion of said banging might raise a few red flags, not some cookies in my oven. But hey, Steve, you do you booboo.


End file.
